I stared at her—his wife—my hands trembling, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. For five years, I had carried the weight of those words: It was your fault. I had replayed that night over and over, searching for something I did wrong… something I could have changed.
She wiped her tears, struggling to speak.
“The real reason your baby died was… because of him.”
Everything inside me went still.
“What?” My voice barely came out.
She shook her head, crying harder. “He never told you, did he? He couldn’t live with it… but he also couldn’t admit it.”
My chest tightened. “Admit what?”
She took a shaky breath. “That night… the night you went into the hospital… he delayed taking you.”
My mind flashed back—him pacing, arguing, saying it was probably false labor, telling me to wait just a little longer.
“I begged him,” I whispered. “I told him something felt wrong…”
“I know,” she said softly. “Because he told me. He said he didn’t want to leave work early again… didn’t want to ‘overreact.’ By the time he finally took you, it was too late.”
